toothpaste kisses
by Streaks of Hail
Summary: Prosciutto and buffalo mozzarella sandwich with just a hint of pesto aioli - dipped with a blend of pure friendship and sealed with true love's kiss. (or; fitz gets hunger pangs. noticeably. a lot. considerably a lot. about ninety-eight percent of the time.) tagalong to it's getting (curiouser and curiouser)


Prosciutto and buffalo mozzarella sandwich with just a hint of pesto aioli - dipped with a blend of pure friendship and sealed with true love's kiss.

(or; fitz gets hunger pangs. noticeably. a lot. considerably a lot. about ninety-eight percent of the time.)

tagalong to it's getting (curiouser and curiouser)

 _+1_

When Jemma arrives home, Fitz has already made himself comfortable on the couch, reruns of Doctor Who playing on the telly and a bag of chips tucked by his side, his hand reaching in every couple of minutes to grab some more food. Between watching the actual episode and concentrating on chewing quietly in the emotional bits, it's safe to say he doesn't notice her until she announces her presence with an exasperated sigh.

"Fitz," she reprimands lightly, tossing her keys onto the breakfast bar with a heavy jangle, "will you ever eat proper food?"

He pauses with his hand halfway to his mouth, frowning at her indignantly. "Proper food? This _is_ proper food. Made from potatoes and salt and vinegar, this is. Don't know how you can get any more proper."

Pursing her lips, she shakes her head fondly at him. "I meant something _other_ than junk food, Leo." She sheds her jacket (he tries not to let his eyes roam) and flops down on the couch beside him with a wide yawn. "Alright, hand them over. Pizza's on its way - and before you ask, yes, I did add extra pepperoni."

"Because you so graciously ordered pizza, I'm willing to let slide the fact that you used my first name," he announces smugly. With a cocky grin, he hugs the bag of chips protectively to himself. "But you're going to have to get some chips yourself. Finders keepers, losers weepers. Get lost, Miss I'm-Terribly-Proper-And-Healthy."

Jemma pouts. "But Fitz - "

"Nuh-uh, Simmons," he squeezes his eyes shut, "I'm not falling for the puppy eyes this time. The chips are mine."

 _+2_

"Fitz!"

There's an appalled shriek from the living room, which Fitz takes as his cue to sneak out of his room and greet her with an innocent smile, a pen stuck between his teeth and algorithms still floating through his head.

"You alright there, Simmons?"

Jemma shoots him a look sharp enough to stun (perhaps they don't need a Night-Night gun after all) and kicks at the boxes on the ground. Gingerly, she leans down and plucks up an empty pizza box by its flaps, and suddenly she seems to resemble his mother. "Care to tell me why the room is a pigsty of junk food, _Leo_?"

(uh-oh. she only uses his first name when she's angry. or drunk. but mostly just angry.)

Fitz shuffles in his spot awkwardly, now noting the empty containers and drinks splayed spectacularly across their (normally) spotless living room. "Um.. Lincoln came over?"

Jemma pulls a face. "How, exactly, did you and _Lincoln_ manage to eat all this by yourselves? And what are we going to do with all these leftover boxes and scraps?"

Feeling quite daring, he grins knowingly at her. "Well if we just had a monkey - "

"Ugh, Fitz!" She throws her hands up in exasperation, but he can tell she's not really mad (or at least, he hopes not. jemma simmons isn't so forgiving when she's blowing steam from her ears).

"If it helps, I saved you some pizza?" he offers.

"You're _insufferable_ ," - in true Granger fashion.

Jemma throws herself down at the couch with a sigh while Fitz stands, scribbling absent-minded equations onto the back of his hand as the silence stretches on.

And then eventually; "Extra cheese?"

He smirks. "Capsicum-free, basil leaves, mushrooms _and_ stuffed crust."

"Still hate you. Marginally less, but it's still there."

 _+3_

He wakes up to the smell of pancakes floating through the apartment, rich and sweet and suddenly reminding him just how long he's gone without food.

(eight whole hours, hel- _lo_ )

Pulling on his clothes and shuffling out into the kitchen, he blinks rapidly for a few moments. Is he dreaming, or is Jemma "Little-Miss-Healthy" Simmons patting at a sizzling pan with a spatula?

"Jemma? What are you doing?" he questions, sidling up to the breakfast bar and slinging himself on a stool.

Jemma looks up to roll her eyes affectionately at him. "What does it look like I'm doing? I'm making pancakes, of course."

"For me?" he asks hopefully.

"Who else?" She smiles at him, and suddenly he's left feeling incredibly suspicious.

"What do you want, Simmons?" he says, narrowing his eyes at her.

"Me? Nothing - well at least, nothing _yet_. Don't you remember what today is, Fitz?"

He frowns to himself, suddenly worrying that he's forgotten something terribly important. Is it her birthday? Can't be, he's still working on the present tucked neatly out of sight under the bed. It's certainly not his birthday, and he can't think of anything else that might cause for such a fuss.

He soon gets his answer when Jemma leans over the breakfast bar to give him a playful shove. "Our anniversary, Fitz!"

"Our.. anniversary?" Fitz repeats bemusedly.

"Yes, you dolt! On this day, years ago, a little boy with a mop of golden curls and scuffed up shoes chose to sit next to me, Jemma Simmons," she says, her smile so bright it outshines the sun seeping through the windows.

"Okay, first of all, I didn't _choose_ to sit next to you. The bus was full!" Fitz defends, trying not to grin when Jemma quirks her eyebrows up at him and leans her elbows on the table, features poised in the way that means she's about to get exactly what she wants.

"I think you had a crush on me," she says cheekily.

"Okay - no. I was _eight_ ," he splutters.

"And you were an _adorable_ eight year-old," Jemma assures. "Oh, does your mum still have those photos of you? We should ask her to send some albums over. I'm sure Lincoln would love to see them!"

"Yes, I'm sure he'll have a right old laugh," he grumbles. Still, he can't stay grumpy at her for long, not when she's so excited (and at this unfortunate time in the morning, too), so he gives her one of his most special smiles. "Happy anniversary, Jemma."

"Hap - "

Before she can say much more, a loud wail of high-pitched noises split the air. Eyes wide, Fitz leaps from his chair hurriedly. "Jemma! _The pancakes_!"

 _+4_

("i can't believe we're spending our anniversary outside the fire brigade."

"well, don't look at me! _you're_ the one who set our bloody flat on fire!")

 _+5_

Because their flat is still being checked out and tidied up, Fitz and Jemma essientially have the entire day off, with nowhere to go and nowhere to be.

"I'm sorry, Fitz," Jemma tells him regretfully as they sit on some nondescript wooden bench on the side of the street. "I've ruined everything."

"No you haven't," Fitz insists, brain suddenly filling with bright and clever ideas (as per usual, of course). "We've still got each other, yeah? That's all we really need for our anniversary, right?"

"I mean.. I suppose," Jemma nods, blinking at him curiously.

He offers her a broad smirk and leaps to his feet, extending a hand out to her. "So let's go celebrate our anniversary, then."

 _+6_

They pile in Jemma's car (fitz has yet to get his drivers license) and drive. Jemma turns the volume up ridiculously loud and blackmails Fitz into joining her, until they're both singing at the top of their lungs and drumming their fingers to the beat.

(unless, of course, somebody drives past. in which case they shrink down into their seats and pretend that they're normal, responsible young adults on a driving trip)

The sun hits Jemma's features perfectly and he finds himself laughing more and more, rejoicing in the simple fact that they're here and they're together, bickering over the laws of thermodynamics and recreation, laughing over ridiculous jokes and (occasionally) screaming as they drive over speed bumps.

On pure impulse they stop at a random supermarket, stumbling through the aisles with baskets and bags like two drunk, hormonal teenagers, delirious with fun (and Disney classics).

Jemma giggles even more when the cute checkout guy flirts with both her _and_ Fitz, but he just splutters his way into paying and drags her out before she can cause even more harm than she already has to his life.

And then they're driving again, until they arrive at a beach, beautiful with its golden sand and its gorgeous blue waters and the kids and dogs chasing each other through the waves.

He's reluctant to get out of the car at first. "You don't understand, the sand gets _everywhere_!" he stresses, but she merely laughs and drags him out anyway.

"It's been forever since I came to a beach," Jemma tells him excitedly. "Come _on_ , Fitz. The water won't wait forever."

"Actually, it will," he yells after her, but she's already dashing down the shore and folding her jeans up to run into the tide.

And that's how they spend the next fifteen minutes, splashing each other relentlessly until they're both dripping with water and soaked in exhilaration. When they finally decide to break out the picnic provisions they'd purchased at the shop, the skies open up and rain pours down until they're sprinting for the safety of the car.

So that's how they end up, snacking on pizza and crisps and coke in Jemma's car, watching as the rain attacks the windows and the waves lurch in protest.

"It's like the universe is out to get us," Fitz remarks around a mouthful of pizza (olive-free, thank you very much).

"No," Jemma disagrees with a brilliant smile. "I think I like it better this way. I mean, what where we going to do at home anyway? Sit at home and eat pancakes?"

"Hey, I like the sound of that," Fitz defends in mock offence.

"We do that most days, Fitz," Jemma laughs.

"Happy Anniversary, Jemma."

"Happy Anniversary, Fitz. Eat your olives."

 _+7_

They fail their field tests miserably. He knows their co-dependency is seen as a big weakness in the eyes of the officials, but Fitz wouldn't change a single thing about what he did.

Still, it's hard to feel optimistic when you've just failed the thing you've spent a good chunk of a while preparing for. And it's even more disheartening when you've somehow managed to disappoint Jemma Simmons.

They get back to their flat in silence, and it's not until Jemma coughs awkwardly that he speaks up.

"I'm sorry."

"What?" She blinks at him in alarm. "Oh, Fitz. You don't honestly believe that I blame you, do you? If anything, it's the officials' fault. They should reward teamwork, not suspend you for it!"

"Our circumstances were kind of different, Jemma," he points out with a mumble.

Jemma gets to her feet and promptly sits herself behind him. "Do you know what my mum and I used to do on the darker days?

"Kareoke night with the Simmons'?" he asks with a small smile.

"Lance _does_ sing like bird," Jemma admits, laughing. "But no. We used to cook. It's a Simmons family tradition. And now it's yours, too."

"Wait, Sim - "

"Come on, Fitz!" She pulls him to his feet and tugs him along by the hand.

Before he knows it, they're standing in the kitchen, both wearing aprons embroidered with cheesy sayings. Jemma starts to pull out random ingredients from the cupboards, leaving Fitz bemused as she whirls around him.

"What are you making?" he questions.

"Don't really know," she tells him cheerfully. "I saw something similar a while ago, but now I'm really just improvising."

"This is going to be a disaster," he points out, but when she berates him for being so grumpy he pitches in to help anyway.

She sprinkles bread crumbs in his hair so he smears cheese on her nose, and soon the kitchen is a living disaster (bags not cleaning up), but the result is entirely worth it, because they've easily created either the best or worst thing in all of cooking history.

"Prosciutto and buffalo mozzarella," Jemma says proudly. "Doesn't it look great?"

"We've created a monster," Fitz says dubiously. "It's Frankenstein all over again."

"Frankenstein was the scientist, not the monster," she corrects matter-of-factly, rifling through the drawers for a knife. "Let's give this a try, shall we?"

"Wait!" Fitz stops her suddenly. "Let's add.. just a hint of pesto aioli."

Jemma gives him a wide smile and promptly hands him the sandwich, eyes alight with earnest.

Perfection.

(the sandwich is good too)


End file.
